


The Discarded Queen

by ladydirewolf1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, s6e10, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-18 15:45:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7321138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydirewolf1/pseuds/ladydirewolf1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Directly following the end of season 6 episode 10's "The Winds of Winter", Petyr Baelish gives Sansa a choice: give in to Jon's reign and live out her days as Winterfell's discarded queen, or take the crown for herself and become the Queen in the North.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

            He moved through the corridors in silence, black cloak billowing out behind and silver mockingbird glinting at his throat. No one tried to stop him, no one even gave him a second look as he swept from Winterfell’s great hall—they had a King in the North, at least for now, and Petyr was grateful for the cover. It would be quite a while before any of those northern fools thought to go after the Lord of the Vale and question his allegiance…

            Up and up he went, circling the worn stone steps as he had before, when the bloody man still hung from the castle walls. This time, however, Petyr did not stop his accent at the guest chambers—it was the Lady of Winterfell he sought now, and the Lady of Winterfell resided in the lord’s chambers, her _father’s_ chambers. Petyr could not help but smirk at the irony of it all. _They named your brother king, and yet they pretend to make you some great lady of the north…it will not last, sweetling. It will not last long._ It was only a matter of time before Jon took the grandest chamber for himself, before he cast Sansa Stark aside to begin his northern reign.

            _Did you imagine it like this, Cat?_ Petyr wondered as he moved towards the chamber’s partly open door. He could see just flashes of copper in the corner of the entryway, bobbing up and down as she paced about the room. _All those nights before your solemn husband returned from Robert’s war…was it me you truly yearned for, me you wished to see outside your chamber door?_

            But he couldn’t ask any of those questions. Cat was dead, and in her place stood a creature more glorious than his Tully maid had ever been. Cat was dead, and Petyr was sure that this time, this time his questions would not fall on deaf ears. Sansa Stark was _his_. And for that, Petyr grinned as his hand closed around the iron handle, as the door swung open with a draft that chilled him to his bones.

            _Did you imagine it like this, Cat?_ He hid the smirk from his face as Sansa whirled around to face him.

            “Are those tears of joy you weep?” he asked, eyeing her pale face. Her eyes were red, and drops clung to her porcelain skin. “Tears for your dear _kingly_ brother down below, with all his northern lords?”

            Sansa’s lips parted in confusion, and a hand flew to her cheek. When she withdrew it, Sansa stared at the wetness with surprise, as if not realizing she had been crying. Hastily, Sansa wiped at the remaining tears, and her lips curved into a frown. “What do you want?” she asked, sniffing slightly. Before he could respond, she corrected herself. “What do you _really_ want, right now?”

            Petyr shrugged, eyes never leaving hers. “To celebrate your victory, of course. Not every girl has a brother for a king.” His eyes glinted a cool grey, and a smirk crossed his face.

            She held back a snort at that, turning to face her window. From the open shutters an icy breeze whispered in, brushing back the auburn strands framing her face. In the blinding light reflected from the soft snow blanketing the ground below, her loose curls looked like flames, dancing and swirling against her back. Petyr longed to push those locks aside now, to step behind her and wrap his arms around her waist and pull her close. He would rip that woolen dress from her body, throw her to her father’s bed that stood so mockingly beside them, take her right there atop the furs like he dreamed of for so many nights…

            Petyr tore his eyes away from the bed. He couldn’t do any of that yet, not after what happened earlier that day in the Godswood. He had been too rash then, too assuming…he would need to be clever to gain her trust again.

            It was Sansa’s voice that drew him in once more, hard as steel yet soft as the breeze that brushed against her cheeks. “Close the door, Lord Baelish,” she said quietly, not bothering to turn.

            “Worried someone will hear?” he teased with a smirk. “You of all people know how drafty these old rooms can get…I hardly doubt closing the door will keep your new king from wondering about the noise above his head. The great room _is_ below this tower, is it not?”

            She ignored his jest, clasping her hands before her waist as she stared out at the frozen landscape. “I don’t want anyone to see us speaking. Now close the door.”

            Petyr did as she asked, and when the door had softly shut behind him, he approached her once again. His eyes lingered at the curve of her waist as he resisted the urge to pull her flush against his chest. _We do not even need the bed,_ he mused as silence stretched between them. _I can take you right here, my queen, right on this very windowsill._ He wondered how many times his Cat had stood at this very same window, gazing into the snowy distance for a cold husband who may never return. Pulling back his outstretched hand, which lingered just inches from her waist, Petyr moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He settled down onto the plush furs, sighing as his fingers curled into the silken hairs.

            Sansa turned at the creaking mattress.

            “Come sit, sweetling, and we will discuss.” He patted his knee and smirked as her brows furrowed in disgust.

            “I am not _Alayne_ anymore, Lord Baelish. I am not your bastard daughter for you to play with.” She eyed his waiting lap, and her frown deepened.

            Petyr simply smiled, remembering their time together at the Vale. Sansa had been practically eager to do as he bid then, when she had no one left in the world but him. _How many nights did she perch upon my knee, acting the good daughter to her father? How many kisses did she grant me, before ice and steel took back her heart?_ “You’re right,” he mused, rising to his feet. “You may not be my sweet daughter anymore, but you are still _mine_ , Sansa…In here,” he waved a hand to the empty room, “in here, I _own_ you.” Petyr moved to stand before her, fingers catching the tip of one auburn lock. He smoothed it in his fingers, ran his thumb across the flaming strand. _So red, so Tully red just like Cat’s…_

            “I don’t owe you a thing,” she bit back, sharp as the steel that clouded her sky-blue eyes. “Your army payed for what Ramsay did to me. That was the deal—nothing more.”

            Petyr chuckled beneath his breath, dropping the lock. His eyes met hers. “I saved you from King’s Landing, love, or have you already forgotten?”

            “You saved a little girl who knew no better.”

            Petyr smirked at that, then took a step closer. Sansa had no choice but to step back, again and again until her shoulders hit the wall’s hard grey stones. His fingers brushed against her cheek, ignoring the way she flinched at his touch. “Little girls have always left big impressions in the hearts of men,” he breathed out as his fingers curled around her chin, as his thumb brushed the corner of her shell-pink lips.

            Her eyes narrowed in on his hand, and her pale breasts rose rapidly atop their corset as her breaths quickened. “And is that where I left mine?” Her gaze fell. “In your _heart_?”

            Petyr’s own breathing hitched as he stirred below, and with a gentle hand, he raised her chin to force her eyes to meet his. “Do you think Jon loves you, Sansa?” He moved closer, letting his warm breath wash against her mouth, so close he need only lean in to take her lips with his. In the Godswood she had pushed him away, but now…now there was no place left to run. No brother left to run to.

            “He’s my brother…”

            “ _Half_ -brother, and now your king. Maybe he’ll even bring back the Targaryen practice of old and marry you himself. Is that what you want, sweetling? To become the plaything of your brother? To live out your life in this lonely castle with no one but your brother to warm your hearth…to warm your _bed_?” Petyr slid his hands to her shoulders, down her arms.

            Sansa shivered at his touch. “And what about your pretty picture, Lord Baelish? Would that be any different?” She tried weakly to break away, but Petyr held her fast against the wall. A hand slid back up to her pretty throat, the other finding the soft curve of her waist. “I know what you want, and I _know_ I wouldn’t be trapped in King’s Landing just to stroke your ego.”

            “Oh?” His lips curved into a wicked smile. “Is there something else you’d rather stroke?” He massaged the flesh at her waist, then his hand dipped lower and behind her, drawing her towards him. He pressed his lips against hers, tasting her sweet mouth. Sansa remained stiff for a moment before relenting to his kiss, but even then her hand found his wrist, pulling it away from her backside.

            “I already told you, Lord Baelish,” she breathed out as he broke away. “I don’t _want_ your crown, your throne, your _bed_.”

            “You don’t want to be queen? I know you, Sansa. And I know what you want just as much as you know what _I_ want.” He took her hands in his own, rubbing their backs with his thumbs. “We are the same, you and I. We both want what we deserve.”

            Her eyes skirted away at that, carefully avoiding his gaze. A pale blush had broken out across her chest, and her lips had swollen into a deep red. “They named him King,” she choked out. “They left me sitting there, alone as they raised their swords. Just like you said…they left my father’s trueborn daughter for a _bastard_.”

            _Ah. So there is more of Cat in you than I believed, sweetling._ The venom in her voice as she named her brother was hardly hidden. “It didn’t feel good, did it? To watch your future get whisked away before your eyes?” He blinked, and in the briefest moment, it was Cat who stood before him, Cat whose hands were clasped in his. It was _Cat_ he tasted on his lips.

            Petyr brought her hands to his chest, placing one above his heart. Sansa’ s lips parted as his heartbeat raced beneath her palm, and the fingers of her other hand curled against his cloak. “There is nothing I can do,” she whispered, eyes leaving her hands to meet his eyes. She stared at him, and a desperation only Petyr could know gazed back.

            Again he leaned closer, letting his breath wash over her pale face. This time he did not kiss her, instead letting his words wash over her ear, her prickling skin pressed against his lips. “You can be the discarded queen, Sansa…” He slid one hand above hers, curling her fingers against his chest. “Or you can be the Queen in the North.” The words came out in a whispered breath, and Sansa shuddered as he spoke, as his lips brushed against her skin and left a trail of fire down her jaw.

            “I…”

            There was a _bang_ from behind followed by a string of hurried words. “Sansa, I was looking—”

            Both started at the voice, and with a bit-back hiss of displeasure, Petyr dropped her hands, stepping away as he turned. His eyes fell coolly on the man before him.

            “Jon…or should I say Your Grace?”

            Jon’s eyes darted between them as he stood frozen in the doorway. Sansa quickly stepped towards him, painting a pleasant smile on her face.

            “Is the feast over?” she asked pleasantly, though as she stood with her back turned to him, Petyr could clearly see her hands clasped behind her back, her fingers fidgeting as she spoke.

            Jon took a step forward, clearing his throat. His fingers brushed just briefly over his bastard sword’s hilt as his eyes flickered to Petyr before settling on his sister. “Erm—yes. It is.” He shuffled awkwardly on his feet, and Petyr smirked at the dark-haired youth.

            “Sansa was just showing me her father’s chambers,” said Petyr smoothly as he adjusted his slightly disheveled cloak. He didn’t care if the bastard didn’t believe him—Petyr had just won him a war. “It is quite an honor for her to be placed here, is it not? The great Lady of Winterfell, just like her mother.”

            “What? Her mother…yes, yes an honor. Actually, Sansa...” He approached her, giving her an apologetic look. “I know we discussed giving you father’s rooms, but now…” He flashed her a lopsided grin, and Sansa’s hands wrung harder behind her back, twisting till the pale skin turned a bright pink. She knew what he was about to say, and without fail, the bastard continued on just as clueless as before “The lords want me as their king, and _as_ there king—”

            _And there it is._ It was all Petyr could do to not roll his eyes.

            “Say no more,” said Sansa after a pause, the ice evident in her voice despite her pleasant tone. “It is yours—father’s chamber is yours.” She turned to go when the bastard’s hand caught her wrist. Sansa turned in surprise, and Petyr now got a clear shot of her face over the boy’s fur-clad shoulder. There was no love upon her pale features, just ice and Cat and _ice_.

            Jon shot her a bashful look, spit out a half apology of sorts, then awkwardly drew Sansa into his arms. As he did so, Sansa hesitantly wrapped her arms around his shoulders, though her body remained stiff in the embrace.

            As they hugged, Sansa’s eyes raised slowly from the floor. They met Petyr’s as they had so long ago, when his sweet daughter Alayne pleaded for his life atop the Mountains of the Moon.

            _The discarded queen or the Queen in the North, sweetling? Which is it you want today?_

            With their gaze locked, Sansa nodded just slightly, and a smirk broke out across Petyr’s face. In the silence he asked it, and in the same stretching, frozen silence, she answered. There was no doubt in her ice-blue eyes.  

            _The Queen in the North. Oh, what would my sweet Cat say?_


	2. Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is shorter than the last one--I wasn't sure if I wanted to continue, but I decided to come back to this story for now. I hope you enjoy, and please let me know what you thought!

            Petyr watched as Sansa untangled herself from her brother’s arms, his fingers reaching up to idly stroke the mockingbird at his throat. The silver was smooth and cold beneath his touch, and Petyr could not help but imagine it against her own slender neck, pierced through the thickness of her cloak. In his dreams the fabric hung jet-black about her shoulders just like his own, swirling against blood-splattered snow or pooling with a thousand blades atop the iron throne. Even when she did not stand by his side, his silver mockingbird glimmered pale and bright at her throat, for every man, woman, and child would know who winter’s queen belonged to…

            “Will you be joining us, my lord?”

            The boy’s voice tore through Petyr’s dream. _And what a sweet dream it was…for now._ “To drink hard ale and sing those bawdy songs?” he asked shrewdly, knowing the invitation was but a mere courtesy on the young king’s part. Petyr knew too well how these northerners celebrated. “Forgive me, your grace, if I instead retire to my chambers. A night in your hall would be far too much for a man used to the sweet singers of King’s Landing, not to mention the sweeter wines.” His eyes drifted to Sansa, who stood rigid by her brother’s side, and he bowed his head in her direction. “Enjoy your feast, Lady Sansa.”

            Her eyes met his, and understanding passed between them. She knew tonight’s celebrations would hold nothing but a few drunken passes as men came forward to speak with their new king. Even after all that had happened, every northman, young or old, would try for the freshly widowed Lady of Winterfell’s hand…or at least for her bed.

            “Perhaps I ought to show Lord Baelish to his chambers,” said Sansa quickly as Jon made to take her arm and lead her from the room. When the boy’s brows began to pull, she hastily added, “We will celebrate on our own another night, Jon. And Lord Baelish is right—such a feast might be too much after…after,”

            Jon squeezed her arm. “Say no more,” he said in that low, quiet voice of his. “Hospitality is the least we can do for the man who won us Winterfell.”

            _You’re right,_ Petyr thought as the King in the North swept from the room. _It is but the least you can do._

           

* * *

 

 

            He crossed the courtyard with snow crunching beneath his boots and Sansa’s hand gripping tightly to his arm. Wind whispered in from beyond the castle’s thick walls, which did little to stop the biting cold that attacked any flesh exposed to the nighttime air.

            “How did you know I wouldn’t want to be there tonight?”

            Petyr looked to her in surprise. “I know you better than you think, Sansa. I thought you knew that by now.” A snow drift blocked the way and Petyr carefully guided her around it. The hem of her skirts dragged along the fresh snow as her boots crunched through the already icy crust. As she stepped back down to the path, Petyr offered his hand to help her through.

            Sansa bit her lip. “Back in the Eyrie, some of the men would approach me at feasts, but now...”

            “They see a woman, sweetling. In the Eyrie you were my bastard daughter. Now you are the king’s sister. Every nothman will vie for your hand.”

            “And if I don’t want them? If I don’t want to wed ever again?”

            Petyr met her eyes, and for a moment, he was taken back to that sweet moment in another frozen courtyard. It was a red-haired maiden he’d kissed then, beneath the branches dipped in ice, ankle-deep in the soft snows atop the Mountain of the Moon. _She was so young then…so beautiful. And she is even more so now._ The time he’d spent away had gifted her with a woman’s curves, and somehow her cheeks had become a statue’s, sculpted and glowing beneath the rising moon. Petyr longed to kiss her again, to feel the softness of her waist and trail his lips across those cheeks. “Sometimes we must do the unimaginable to get what we want.”

            She scoffed, shaking her head. “Is that what you told yourself the night you sold me to Ramsay?”

            _Aye, and the time I gave your father’s head to the queen. The day you wed the Imp, too._ His eyes hardened, and he said firmly, “Do not dwell on that, sweetling. It is the past, and the past is done with.”

            Sansa said nothing to that, though Petyr noted how she bit her lip as silence stretched between them. _A bad habit,_ he mused, eyeing her swollen mouth and her downcast gaze as they moved through the snow. _And a face as lovely as yours already attracts too much attention._

            “They say winter has finally come,” he said finally as the powdery snow gave way to a cobbled path. Half-frozen mud littered the stones, and Petyr slowed their pace to guide her away from the worst spots. “I suppose you Starks were right after all.”

            “I always knew it would come,” she said hotly as she steadied herself with his hand.

            He glanced over, taking in the flush of her cheeks that went so nicely with her pale skin. “You are a child of summer, sweetling. What do you know of winter?”

            “Far more than you’d think.”

            Petyr stopped, ignoring her tug as she tried to press on ahead. When he didn’t move, she dropped his hand. “Oh, really?” His hand darted back out, catching her own. With a sharp yank, Petyr pulled her towards him. Sansa let out a shriek of protest, but her soft leather boots betrayed her, sending her sliding in his direction across the icy stones. Before she could righten herself, Petyr drew her against his chest, one hand at the small of her back, the other trapping both wrists in the other.

            “Now tell me,” he said softly as he gazed into her flushed face. Her eyes flickered slightly with worry, and a smirk found Petyr’s lips. “What do you know of winter?”

            Sansa’s chest heaved against his, and loose stands of auburn hair flew against her temple. Her breaths escaped in white puffs, swirling against his own, they stood so close. “Do you know what it’s like to go home, Lord Baelish?”

            His eyes narrowed suspiciously, and all playfulness they’d had evaporated, leaving only the cold night air. _And still she dwells on it._ He felt himself growing annoyed, but forced himself to remain calm. “Of course,” he said to her lips. Purple hues now crept into the once pink skin, and Petyr longed to warm them with his own. The sight did little to quench the fire burning inside him, merely replacing the one fueled by his displeasure. He pressed at her back, drawing her closer. His lips ghosted above hers as she spoke.

            “Imagine going home, to the place where you once laughed and played, to the place you felt _safe_ , and having to lie each night in the bed you once longed for _trapped_ in the arms of a monster. _That_ , my lord, is the winter I’ve known.” Suddenly, she pulled her wrists from his hand, and Petyr’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. They were hard and pale as ice. “We may be working together, and we may want the same things, but I will never forget what you did to me, Petyr. The past isn’t over until you can’t feel it anymore, and this,” Sansa waved a hand to her body, “this reminds me every night and day.” She squared her shoulders, then pointed to the building behind her. “Your chamber is through there. I’ll send for you tomorrow.” And with that she stepped passed him, leaving Petyr alone in the frozen courtyard.


	3. Chapter Three

Outside her door the great beast of a woman stood, eyes trained on the invisible foes that hid between the stones of Winterfell’s walls. Petyr watched the wench for a while, contemplating whether those clear blue eyes of hers would have been enough to get even one patron back in King’s Landing…then his lips curled downward in displeasure, and Petyr shook the image from his mind. He cleared his throat, and the woman’s head snapped in his direction.

            “Lady Brienne,” he said cheerfully, stepping forward into the light. “Is Lady Sansa inside?”

            She regarded him suspiciously, pretty eyes narrowed, fingers searching unconsciously for her sword hilt. “ _Princess_ Sansa,” she corrected. “And yes…but she’s bathing right now and does not wish to be disturbed.”

            _An ugly creature, but a loyal one._ He would have to use that to his advantage. Brienne was a player he hadn’t anticipated before reaching Winterfell, but the wench was just a minor annoyance in his plans—nothing more. Petyr gave her a gracious nod, and his eyes fell to the floor. Steam rolled out from beneath the wooden door, waves of white swirling with the morning’s chill air. The sight sent his blood on fire as he imagined the scene inside.

            “Can I help you?” The wench sounded annoyed now, and Petyr’s eyes snapped up to see fingers curled fully around her sword hilt.

            Petyr let his mind wander for a second more, then a pleasant smile broke out across his face. “Perhaps it is _I_ who can help _you_ , my lady.”

            Brienne frowned and rolled her eyes. _Like sapphires_ , Petyr thought as they moved back into her head. _Someone must have found those pretty at one point or another…and I just know who did._ Everything was useful in his book, and the simplest of details could be the key to getting what he wanted.

            “And how his that, _my lord_?” she replied, the word rolling bitterly from her tongue. Obviously his reputation had not failed to reach her ears, but Petyr doubted Sansa had told the wench much of him—the girl hardly knew anything, in truth, other than what she had seen and what he had told her.

            Petyr stepped closer. “You want a place by our princess’s side. You want to keep her safe, fight her battles, lead her wars.”

            Brienne stiffened and drew herself up, but she said no more. Petyr continued on.

            “And how do you think she would feel,” Petyr said, stepping even closer. Blood pumped through his veins, and his eyes glinted in the morning light. “If she knew whose heart you truly desired…what man you would give up everything for?”

            Silence hung in the chill air, filling the gap between their two chests, pressing against her, radiating off him. _This_ is what Petyr lived for. _This_ was knowledge, and knowledge was power. He watched Brienne’s eyes widen, as her gaze flitted nervously over his shoulder, as if for a moment expecting the man himself to creep up from behind. Then her eyes froze. They grew hard and cold as ice, and Brienne stepped forward so suddenly that Petyr was forced to scramble a step back.

            “Lord Baelish, _you_ are the one that sold her to that monster, _you_ are the one that turned her life into every one of the seven hells—now you _dare_ imply that I would betray her?” She laughed a short, barking laugh that did little to hide the nervous tremor in her voice. When the laughter had died away, she glanced down to see her fingers wrapped protectively around the golden lion roaring at her hip. Her eyes grew wide once more, and her hand flew from the sword as if it were hot steel.

            Petyr smirked. “That pretty blade of yours is quite the sword, is it not?” He eyed the brilliant red rubies. They flashed like blood even in the weak light, pulsing like a heart. “The only way a wench gets such a thing is by stealing or as a gift…and in your defense, my lady, I have little reason to believe you would steal from a cripple. Now tell me,” he said, lowering his voice. In one step, Petyr closed the distance between them once again. His hand stretched out, fingering the rubies set into the hilt. “This is a lover’s sword, my lady. What does a wench like you have to do to get a gift like that? Did you fuck the Kingslayer _with_ the queen in your bed as well, or did she just watch?”

            Heat rushed to Brienne’s face, the red startling against her pale skin. “I—I never— _we_ never…” she bumbled out, tripping over her town tongue. She tried to regain composure, squaring her shoulders. She took a breath and decided to gaze at the wall behind him as she spoke. “Ser Jaime’s sword will never convince Sansa of anything,” she declared to the stones.

            Petyr’s smirk deepened. “Of course not. But a hundred singers all over the kingdoms singing of the wench and the one-handed knight may. And fear not, my lady…even in times of war, the people _love_ a good song.” In truth, Petyr had no idea how many people, how many inkeeps or foot soldiers, had seen the Kingslayer and the wench together. But the seed of doubt was enough.

            “Even if Princess Sansa believes you, she will not fault me for love,” the wench declared, just a hint of doubt creeping into her voice.

            _Love. What a dangerous word_. “Love, my lady?” Petyr asked slowly, his voice dropping, his lips curling into a dangerous smile. “All Sansa knows of _love_ is songs. And all the songs have lied. Instead of being rescued by a handsome prince, she was first handed to a dwarf and then sold to a monster. Her mother once loved another and her father brought home the bastard brother she now calls _king._ No, Lady Brienne. _Love_ will not save you.

            “No one will care but you—”

            Petyr laughed, and her voice broke off. “Is that so? What do you _think_ these northerners will do when they hear of this tale? The beast that fucked the lion…the bear that loved her maiden fair. You will be the laughingstock of this court, my lady. No man will fight beside you without first seeing what lies between those thighs the Kingslayer found so sweet.”

            Now not even a blush could warm her cheeks. All color drained from her face, leaving it ashen and sickly. And just like that, Petyr had her.

            Brienne took a shaky breath. “What do you want?”

            _And a woman never was so sweet…that is, until I taste the one inside._ “Step aside as I talk to the princess,” he said calmly. “And step aside _every_ time I wish to speak with her again. You will tell no one, or the king will be the second to hear of your heart’s _treacherous_ desires. Sansa will be the first, and make no mistake, my lady—I have always been good at telling stories.”

            The great wench stepped aside with a disgusted look on her face. “You only want to speak with her?”

            Petyr’s hand found the doorknob. “I only want to speak,” he agreed. He could tell she didn’t believe him, but what could she do? _I have her_ , Petyr told himself _,_ fighting the urge to smirk. _I have her now._ And it was a good thing too—the wench was proving to be more trouble than he had first expected.

            “If I so much as hear a shout…”

            He smiled and turned the knob. “You have my full permission to use the Kingslayer’s sword.” And with that, Petyr pushed open the door and stepped inside. He could feel the wench’s bright blue eyes boring holes into his back, and with a soft _thud_ Petyr let the door swing shut behind.

            “Palla? Is that you?” Sansa’s voice called out from around the corner. The sloshing of water followed.

            Petyr moved silently towards the voice until he came upon the copper tub—Sansa’s face was turned away from him, eyes closed and facing the open window. Wisps of steam rose from the water’s surface, whispering off the soapy foam. There was a gentle slosh of water as Sansa straightened in the tub, and her shoulders rose from the edge, glistening and white. Damp locks clung to her thin frame, so dark they looked almost black against her milky skin. _Alayne_ , he thought suddenly, once again taken back to their time in the Vale. _My daughter…my sweet Alayne._ Petyr prayed not all of the bastard girl was gone—Alayne had always been so dutiful, so eager to please. A girl like that would be much easier to deal with in the game to come… _but then again,_ Petyr realized, _Alayne was never meant to be a queen._

His footsteps fell without a sound, and soon he was kneeling beside the tub. Hints of white, full breasts and smooth thighs peaked out from beneath the bubbles as she shifted, and Petyr willed himself to remain in control. _A lesser man would take her right here_ , he thought, eyes roaming her relaxed body. _He’d pull her from the water, throw her against the floor…_ But Petyr had never been a lesser man.

            He let his fingertips find her scalp, gently massaging in the remaining soap. The scent of lemon drifted lazily upward with her satisfied sigh. _I’ve become a handmaiden for this girl_. He chuckled inwardly at the thought. _Oh, Cat…if only you could see me now._ Sansa’s shoulders dropped as he rubbed, and Petyr’s fingers found a rhythm, moving forward and back, side to side, closer and closer to the nape of her neck until his thumbs brushed the sweet spot of skin beneath her ears.

            “Mhmm…Palla, thank you…” Sansa muttered, eyes threatening to flutter open in her pleasure.

            “More?” he breathed out.

            She nodded lazily.

            With a smirk, Petyr’s hands dipped lower, brushing away the hair at her shoulders. He let his fingers do the work, digging into the soft, wet skin, massaging away the tightness that remained. Her spine arched at his touch and a moan escaped her lips. Droplets rolled off her skin, dripping onto his forearms. Sansa straightened, the tops of her breasts peeking out above the water. His breath began to quicken at the sight, and before he could stop himself his hands slid back upwards, capturing her jaw and tilting back her head. A flicker of pleasure crossed her face as his fingers brushed fire across her lips—then her lashes flew upwards, and realization took hold.

            “I wondered when you’d notice.”

            Shock, then fear, then anger flitted across her eyes. She tried to jerk from his grasp, but Petyr’s fingers remained firm around her jaw.

            Petyr _tsked_. “Don’t leave just yet, sweetling. I’d hate for you to waste a bath...especially one you seemed to enjoy.” One of his hands stroked her glistening cheek, sliding a damp strand out of the way to reveal the flush of pink underneath. “Besides,” he added with a smirk, “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

            “Lady Brienne is just outside,” she said stubbornly, fiercely trying to ignore his touch. She remained still but for the hands that drew the soap suds inwards, trying in vain to cover her chest.

            “Lady Brienne will not be a problem. Besides, I just want to talk.” His hands tightened on her jaw, then to prove his word, he released her. Sansa immediately moved away and drew her knees to her chest, but the pretty blush remained on her cheeks.

            “I _told_ you I’d send for you, Lord Baelish,” she said hotly. “I don’t want to play these…these…” she looked around in frustration before her eyes settled on his own. “These _games_.”

            In this new position Petyr could see her slender calves, the creamy underside of her thighs that her lower leg did not mask. He let his gaze wander for a moment before replying. “Seven days it’s been since we spoke in the courtyard. And _this_ ,” he rose to his feet, shadow stretching across the tub, looming before her small form curled tightly in the water. With one step he crossed to the other side, sitting down on the tub’s lip. His fingers skimmed the water’s surface, brushing over her knee. She shivered despite the sweet-smelling steam. “This is how you play, sweetling.” His palm slid onto her thigh, rubbing the soft flesh like he had her shoulders.

            Sansa’s lashes fluttered despite herself, then a steeled expression took over. “Then tell me,” she said through her tightly-clenched jaw. “Tell me how we play.”

            So Petyr did—he leaned over the swirling bathwater and whispered his plan in her ear. As he spoke, Sansa’s eyes grew wide, but Petyr’s smirk grew wider. When he was done, Petyr rose from the tub’s edge and dried his hands on his cloak.

            “No,” she said, shaking her head. Drops of water flew from her dripping hair. “No, no—I already told you. I can’t do it again. Besides, Jon will never agree to such a thing.”

            “ _Can’t_? If you can’t, then we are done here.” He turned and moved to step away, but a hand darted from the water, gripping his wrist.

            “Wait.”

            Petyr did not turn. Her fingers tightened on his wrist.

            “I’ll…I’ll do it. Tell me what I need to do.”

            A smile broke out across his lips. _And just like that, I own the second piece._ “You will make a glorious queen, my lady.”  

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought, and thanks for reading! This is always a fun pair to write for. 
> 
> Oh and if you don't like it or my plot, that's ok. But know that this is fanfic for a reason, and if you are looking for something else, there is PLENTY out there.


End file.
